


100 ways to say 'I love you'

by Teatrolley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slow Build, and very much, subtle development, two guys loving each other very gently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teatrolley/pseuds/Teatrolley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sleeps with John’s body next to him, and wakes up to find him making them both toast in the kitchen with sleep still sitting in the corner of his eye, and he holds on tight to every little intimacy that John gives him; every little small moment, every little fond smile. It could be enough. Still, he’d like more. But Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know how to ask for things. </p><p>Luckily, John does.</p><p>_________________</p><p>In which there are a hundred phrases and none of them are “I love you.” Until they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	100 ways to say 'I love you'

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [that tumblr post](http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you):

Sherlock wakes up on a Friday in December, and is not alone is his room anymore. In the corner of it, on an old chair, sits the man who has simultaneously made and broken Sherlock all over several times; John. 

It takes only a second for Sherlock to take him in, see the bags on the floor beside him, and the dark crescent moons under his eyes. John’s shoulders are tight; he’s tense, but he’s back. The signals are clear.

“You should take the bed,” is the first thing Sherlock says. “I’ll take the couch. Until your room is settled.”

John gets up without saying anything, and walks up to the bed. He sits on the end of it, and grabs Sherlock’s ankle when Sherlock tries to get out. 

“Stay with me?” John asks. His voice is broken and hoarse. The warmth from John’s fingertips is seeping into Sherlock’s skin and into his blood. Sherlock’s shivers disappear. 

“Okay,” he says. He watches as John crawls under the covers and lies down. Sherlock’s heart beats frantically as John digs out space next to Sherlock and inserts himself in it, just like he’s dug out corners of Sherlock’s brain and moved in there, with his callused hands and comfy sweaters. 

John holds his hand tentatively over Sherlock’s chest, until Sherlock turns his head to watch him. Then John’s hand falls the few inches, and is pressed to the skin over Sherlock’s beating heart. It’s intimate and absolutely frightening; Sherlock’s pulse only gets faster and harder. 

“You can tell me to leave,” John says. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, you can always say so.”

Sherlock watches John’s sad and sincere eyes and sighs. 

 

_55\. I don’t mind._

__

John starts sleeping in his bed, but that’s all he’s doing. Two weeks in Sherlock asks him if he can create a home lab upstairs and John watches him for a long time before he walks up to Sherlock and squeezes his fingers between his own. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Do that.”

And with that, it’s settled. 

 

Sherlock brings John along with him on cases again, and notices Lestrade watching them bending over a body together from across the crime scene/parking lot. When he looks up Lestrade is frowning, but when he catches Sherlock’s eye he smiles. Sherlock doesn’t know what it means, but he doesn’t need to, because when he says something clever John smiles at him, and it almost looks like it did that first time, except now it carries more weight. 

When he sees John smile, two dots connect in Sherlock’s brain, and no less than two minutes later they’re off and running, and they don’t stop for another five hours. John shoots the criminal in the shoulder when he cuts Sherlock above the eyebrow with a rusty kitchen knife.

Ambulances and the Met arrive while John is keeping the guy alive, and Sherlock is pressing a torn-off piece of his own shirt against his own bleeding. 

“What is this?” Lestrade asks when he arrives. 

“Self defence.” It’s John who says it, and even though Sherlock was the one being hurt, it really isn’t too far off. 

Paramedics take over for John, who is instantly back by Sherlock’s side. He ignores Lestrade as he gently pries Sherlock’s hand away from his face. Sherlock lets him, and shows John his cut. 

“You won’t need stiches,” is all John says. 

“I’m assuming you won’t come with to the hospital?” Lestrade asks Sherlock, but directs it to the both of them; it doesn’t matter who replies. 

“No,” Sherlock says. “But you can get someone to drive us home.” Lestrade does.

 

Later, in their own bathroom, Sherlock balls his own hand into a fist against the sting as John cleans his wound with alcohol, but is careful not to let his face show the pain. 

“There we go,” John says, and puts a closure strip plaster over the wound. When it’s on, he stays close for a beat, and removes Sherlock’s by-now-very-tightly-curled hair from his forehead with a gentle hand. 

Sherlock looks up at him, but John is looking resolutely on Sherlock’s face instead of in his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock sees the blood still covering John’s hand; both Sherlock’s own, and the criminals. 

Without saying anything he reaches out for a washcloth by the shower, and reaches out to wet it in the sink. Taking John’s hand from his own forehead, he brings it down in front of him, where he holds it between his own and cleans it slowly. He feels John watching the procedure as intensely as Sherlock himself. 

When he’s done, Sherlock holds both of John’s hands between his own, and this time their eyes meet. John’s smile is soft and gentle, and not as sad as it was earlier, so Sherlock smiles back and beckons his head towards the bedroom and the sweet comfort of the soft mattress. None of them say anything, but none of them have to.

 

_4\. Come here. Let me fix it._

__

A month passes before John sees Sherlock’s scars. It’s an accident when he does. Sherlock is in the shower, and he hasn’t bothered to close the bedroom door behind him. He dries off and gets out of the tub, where he goes to fetch his shaving kit in the cupboard facing the door, so he has his back to it. 

He hears nothing, but when he turns around John is frozen inside the bedroom, and his eyes are locked to Sherlock’s chest at the exact height where Sherlock knows his scars would be, if he were to turn back around. 

“I knew there was a reason you always kept your shirt on,” John whispers. He sounds horrified. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. “I didn’t inflict these on myself?” But then, is the truth really the better alternative?

“How?” John demands. 

“Moriarty’s network.”

“When you were … away?”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes.”

For a beat they just stare at each other; both of them terrified and heavy with emotion. Then John breaks it, and takes two long strides to end up in front of Sherlock’s body, before he pulls Sherlock into an embrace, burying his face in the place between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. When Sherlock feels a wetness forming there, he doesn’t comment on it. 

“I’m so tired,” John says. He sounds defeated and his fingernails dig into Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock breathes in his smell, in case this is the last time. 

“What do you want?” he asks. He’d give him anything; everything. Even freedom from himself. John breathes in shakily.

“I want to not hurt you anymore.”

Sherlock didn’t expect that. For a moment his brain can’t seem to grasp it; cognitive dissonance. But then it settles into his bones, and he thinks he might understand; he allows himself to believe the idea of it. 

“I don’t want to hurt you either, any longer,” he says to the top of John’s head. They hold each other tight and find some relief. 

 

_92\. I want you to be happy._

__

Somewhere around the time of Christmas with Sherlock’s parents, someone tells John about Sherlock’s love for bees. At that time, John really doesn’t have the emotional energy to tease Sherlock about that, but slowly, as he comes more and more back, that energy comes back as well. 

A day in late January he comes home with a package. 

“What’s that?” Sherlock asks from where he is sitting at the kitchen table doing an experiment. 

“A gift.”

“Whoever for?”

“You, of course,” John says. He’s smirking, and his entire air is filled with mischief. Sherlock is suspicious. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“Now, there’s this concept around gifts,” John says. “That you find out what they are when you open them, and not by asking.”

“You think you’re really funny, don’t you?” Sherlock asks, but he’s smiling. John grins back and hands the present over. 

Sherlock barely has to pull away the wrapping paper before he sees the imprint of cartoon bees peeking through and he is stuck between laughing and rolling his eyes. He does both, and throws a pencil after John. 

“You’re so dumb,” he says. John hasn’t chuckled this heartily since before Sherlock disappeared. 

“I think the correct response is ‘thank you’,” John says. 

“Shut up.”

John’s grin could light up cities and break his own face in two. Sherlock fully unpacks the gift, and sees that it’s bee-printed boxers. He likes the idea that it’s a suggestion, even though it might not be; he savours the thought. 

“Why would you do this?” he asks, shaking his head at the pants. 

“Because I knew you’d find it funny,” John simply replies. Sherlock really can’t say anything to that, can he?

 

_28\. I like your laugh._

__

 

Banter returns and, with a little bit of time, so does laughter as a regular occurrence. Sherlock has never been happier, but he’s also never been more scared, because the way John beams at him when Sherlock says something funny – fond and gleeful – makes Sherlock feel like he could stand a chance; that he, perhaps, could be the person who could love John the most and the best. 

Sherlock sleeps with John’s body next to him, and wakes up to find him making them both toast in the kitchen with sleep still sitting in the corner of his eye, and he holds on tight to every little intimacy that John gives him; every little small moment, every little fond smile. It could be enough. Still, he’d like more. But Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know how to ask for things. 

Luckily, John does. 

They get the home lab set up – it took them a while, but better late than never, right? – and Sherlock spends a lot of his time up there. One Saturday afternoon where they haven’t had any cases, and they’ve spent most of the morning re-watching new James Bond movies, Sherlock is up there when John enters the room quietly. 

“Hey,” Sherlock says, but stays bent over the desk, looking into the microscope where he’s doing an experiment. John only hums and walks up to stand next to Sherlock, touching his shoulder lightly. He waits patiently until Sherlock has found what he’s looking for, and is writing something down in the notebook next to him. 

Sherlock turns to him and looks up. John’s expression is both affectionate and playful. 

“What’s up with you?” Sherlock asks. John doesn’t reply, but puts the tip of his thumb to Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock’s breath immediately gets caught in his throat. John’s smile turns smaller but warmer; impossibly fonder, too. He moves his hands to grasp Sherlock’s head by his cheeks, and runs his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheekbones. Sherlock wants John to kiss him, but it’s John who asks:

_37\. “Can I kiss you?”_

Sherlock gets up from his chair immediately, so they are standing in front of each other. John’s hands don’t leave his face. John grins and looks at Sherlock’s lips, so Sherlock grins, too. 

“Say yes,” John says. 

Sherlock takes a step forward into John’s space because he’s allowed. He breathes him in deeply, and touches John’s nose with his own. “Yes.”

John kisses him. It’s soft and gentle and fond, and Sherlock can hardly breathe because this is John kissing him, John putting his arms around Sherlock’s neck, John licking playfully into his mouth. Sherlock has to stop the kiss because he’s smiling so much. When John sees, he giggles, and kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth where it is lifted by his grin. Sherlock kisses him again, and doesn’t care that it’s messy, because he’s pressing his smile to John’s skin. 

“Now what?” he says to John’s temple afterwards. John laughs so loudly it echoes in the sparsely furnished room. 

“Now whatever you’d like,” he says, grinning. Sherlock kisses him again. 

“What if I want you to take my clothes off?” John smirks and wriggles his eyebrows, so Sherlock kisses them as well. 

“That can be arranged,” John says. 

“Hm. What if I want you to stay?”

“You’re not getting rid of me now, certainly.”

Sherlock smiles. Then: “And what if I want to call you mine?”

John smiles, too, and kisses Sherlock’s knuckles. “I’m already yours,” he says. 

 

_36\. We’ll figure it out._

__

The next morning Sherlock wakes first and watches John sleeping and is in love. He runs his fingertips over John’s forehead, and waits patiently for John to wake. 

“Hey, you,” John mumbles as he stirs. 

“Kiss me again,” Sherlock says. John smiles and does. He apparently doesn’t care that neither of them have brushed their teeth. Sherlock Holmes learns how to ask for things. Or, at least, John. 

“I have to tell you something,” he says.

“Tell me something.”

Sherlock kisses John again. Then:

_100\. “I love you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please do tell me. 
> 
> I'm to be found on tumblr at [tenderlock](http://tenderlock.tumblr.com)


End file.
